Firsts
by That-Fresh-Rain-Smell
Summary: First Year, Harry's point of veiw as he falls in love with snape. skips to fourth year and the something happens. Cute DarkxFluff Snarry
1. Chapter 1

Title: Firsts

Author: That-Fresh-Rain-Smell

Pairing: Harry Potter/Severus Snape

Warnings: Chan-ish, non-con, Abuse, Violence

Summary: what if, during first year, Harry was a bit more wise, a bit more broken, a bit more screwed up, and had feelings for his potions professor? Self-loathing Angst and Despair! Woooo!

Authors Note: So, after Always was finished, and the outline for the sequel to Always is still being drawn up, here's this little thingy.

-Kozi

* * *

_Firsts_

_Chapter One: First Sight_

Pain exploded in the center of his forehead, and for one, ridiculous moment, Harry thought that his uncle had struck him again. This was, of course, ridiculous, because he was standing in the middle of a rather large hall, with tables upon tables of young wizard offspring. Of which, he had recently found, he was suddenly a part of.

The past few days (in which he had been spirited away from his hopeless life at the Dursleys, and forced into this impossible, imposing world of witches and wizards) had seemed like a dream.

While he was familiar with confusion, greatly so, he found a new wave of it begin to fall onto him. He rewinded the events since he had entered the hall to better understand the confusion, scrunching his brows in concentration as much as in pain. He had been studying the professors, admiring the large girth of a very shaggy looking man, and then moving on to the one next to him, when it had hit.

Was looking at the dark man causing him such pain? He remembered that he had been instantly floored when his eyes fell upon the pale face and long, black hair. It had seemed like he couldn't breath, like the air was thick, and nothing could ever possibly move. He had taken in those profound black eyes, and the distinct smirk that seemed to be at home upon his face, and suddenly, the pain had come.

Harry could only come to one conclusion. It was his thoughts that had triggered the pain. No one _normal_ would study the features of a man with such intensity, no other normal person would stare, open mouthed, at the mans' look, a look that seemed to call to him, when at the same time it seemed to push him away. No one normal. Somehow—this was a magical place, after all—his thoughts had been read, and dutifully punished, by someone, or, perhaps something.

As the bushy haired girl and the red-headed boy both nudged him and asked about his health, Harry shook himself, and immediately banned all thoughts of the man from his mind.

His name was called, and he was sat upon the stool, as everyone else had been. He assumed he was quite a bit more nervous than the rest of his year mates, though, for the room hadn't gone deathly still and silent when _they _moved to sit upon the old stool.

He found himself begging not to be put in Slytherin, though the hat told him that was where he rightfully belonged. He wanted desperately to be put in a house that he had already made friends with, for friends were a rare and impossible thing for him. Finally, he was admitted into the lion's house, and went to sit between Hermione and Ron, as they had introduced themselves.

He allowed himself to ask about the man, to think he was just curious, to pretend there wasn't any other significance to it. A taller boy, with hair more red than Ron's, answered him.

"That's professor Snape," he continued talking, but Harry had tuned out. The gist was that the man was not well liked, but he could have already guessed that.

_Snape_. Now he knew his name. He contented himself with that, still feigning indifference, even to himself, and began to eat. There was much more food than he was used to, and he could barely eat more than a quarter of his plate. Hermione, the bushy-haired girl, looked at him with concern, but he ignored it, and continued to talk and force laughter with his new housemates. His mind wandered frequently back to the man, but he forcefully pushed any concrete thought far into the depths of his mind.

* * *

When it was time for bed, he found himself sitting up long after the others had gone to sleep, thinking. He watched the sky, sitting by the window, and let his thoughts roam out into space as he gently pet Hedwig. He wasn't thinking about the dark man, no, he was not. He was thinking…He wasn't thinking, simple as that. A small voice told him he was in denial, but he ignored it. Better to be in denial than to be more _abnormal._

When at last he crawled beneath the cold sheets, his thoughts had indeed roamed to the man, and a familiar warm feeling curled in the bottom of his stomach. Hating himself, he fell asleep trying hard not to think of anything at all.

* * *

The next day, he could almost forget the feelings and emotion, concentrating on the fabulous food and chatty friends. He found himself relaxing, smiling, talking and laughing. The man surely couldn't get such a reaction from him, it was impossible. He had overreacted, a combination of exhaustion and wonder; that was all.

He looked once, nervously, up to the head table, and, not finding the professor, sighed in relief. Maybe it had been just a bad dream.

He accepted his time table graciously from his head of house, and looked it over with Ron and Hermione, comparing classes and teachers. Fred and George, Ron's brothers, looked over their tables as well, making comments on teachers and their habits as they did so. They were very sympathetic when they saw that all three first years had potions first period, exaggerating—he hoped—the horrid-ness of the situation.

Before entering the classroom with his new friends, Harry steeled himself. He was not going to let this affect him, he wasn't going to think about it, or notice anything that other people didn't notice. He would be _normal_ for once.

They had sat down and were getting situated when the door slammed open, the closed. All conversations across the room instantly ceased as the tall, dark figure came billowing into the room, speaking.

"There will be no foolish wand waving, or silly incantations in this class."

Two things hit Harry at once. The first was the mans voice. The night before, while taking into account his eyes and skin and hair, he had not heard him speak, and thus had been denied the entirety of his infatuation. Deep and dark, gilded like velvet, his voice moved like silk upon your skin, strong and beautiful, menacing and inviting at the same time. If Harry was not aware of his attraction, he surely was now, denial notwithstanding.

The second thing was the way he held himself, so aloof and indifferent. Harry admired his posture, stance, and clothing, intimidated in spite of himself. He almost drowned when Snape spoke again, so beautiful it was.

"As such, I don't expect many of you to appreciate the subtle science and exact art that is potion making. But for those of you who posses the predisposition…" A blonde across the aisle smirked arrogantly, and Harry recognized him as Draco Malfoy, whose friendship he had turned down.

He began to write, copying anything potions-related (so as not to arouse suspicion) that the man said. As if he hoped that the velvet voice would sink into his inked words, as if he could hear the voice by just reading the simple sentences.

"I can teach you how to bewitch the mind, and ensnare the senses. I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even, put a stopper in death."

"Then again, maybe some of you have come to Hogwarts in possession of abilities so formidable that you feel confident enough to. Not. Pay. Attention!" He didn't yell, nor raise his voice, but the threat and anger lingered in every word. Harry finished the last line, and looked up as Snape came to loom over him. He felt a course of nervous energy, and at the same time, as if he would melt into the very floor. He frowned. _Not_ normal, he thought to himself. This was definitely not a normal reaction.

"Mister Potter," _Gods_. The way the man said his name made him completely and utterly useless. He could not move, could not think, and he definitely could not form a presentable sentence. His body was hot, too hot, and he felt like he was going die right there. Before he could stutter a 'yes', or an answer of some sort, Snape had begun talking again.

"Our, new, celebrity." _Celebrity? Hardly._

"Tell me; what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?" Harry could only manage to shake his head, and this movement required a lot effort, at that.

"You don't know? Well, let's try again. Where, Mister Potter, would you look if I asked you to find me a bezoar?" Harry was vaguely aware that Hermione was practically jumping from her seat to answer these questions, and he wished that Snape would call on her, and take the attention from himself.

He was also aware of the sinking feeling that he was failing. Failing because he didn't know the answers, when it seemed others did.

Finally, he managed to work his vocal cords right, and force breath into his answer.

"I-I don't know, sir." He felt miserable, and, combined with the other, unnatural emotions, was starting to feel quite sick.

"And what is the difference between munksford and wolfbane?"

"I don't know sir."

"Pity. Clearly, fame isn't everything. Is it, Mister Potter?"

As much as he hated the feeling of failure, and felt the hate towards Snape for doing this to him, he was still drowning in the voice that dammed him. Would it always be like this?

* * *

As the weeks past, Harry took to ignoring. Ignoring Snape, ignoring the emotions, ignoring everything that had to do with the man, and concentrating fully on his friends and studies.

When he was made seeker for Gryffindor, he concentrated on flying, and catching the snitch. The one thing he allotted himself was his nightly wanderings, getting closer and closer to the dungeons. Terrified, yet enthralled by the idea of coming upon the man in the dark hallways, he began wandering the dungeon hallways on a nightly basis, sometimes staying for hours.

One night, he had fallen asleep by a nondescript door, leaning against the wall and resting his knees against the wood. He was rudely awakened by a burst of light in his eyes, and he reached a hand towards the light, to block it out, to see around it. Startled by the face on the other side, he shrank back.

"Professor S-Snape," he stuttered, standing awkwardly and brushing himself off.

"Tell me Potter, what brings you to sleep against the wall outside my door?"

"Y-your door sir?" Harry asked, startled. He quickly tried to remember how he had arrived there, mapping it in his mind to pinpoint the exact location.

"My quarters, Potter. Or did you think I slept in my classroom?"

"N-no, sir, sorry. I just…I didn't know it was yours, I mean. Sorry." He began to walk away, and Snape took off house points for wandering after-hours, and also him a detention.

Harry was nervous. He was too nervous to sleep, too nervous to think coherently. All he could think about was the detention. What would he do? How could he possibly stand being _alone_ with Snape in a room for two hours without completely imploding?

* * *

Ever since the night after his first day, Harry had taken to his shameful habit. As his uncle had shown him, and had sometimes done himself, he took to the showers each morning before the other boys, and committed his shamefully addicting act.

His uncle had not shown him as a parent would show their son to ride a bike, no, he had been brutal, forceful He had been so relentless that he caused Harry to cry more often than not, and then he would resorted to painful physical punishments that left their remains on Harry's' body for days on end.

So, obviously, Harry did not connect this act as something natural, he did not take as much pleasure from it as perhaps others did, and he was always hateful to himself afterwards, and, even, before, as well.

Now, as he nervously prepared to go down to supper, and after, the dungeons for his detention, he made a rash decision to go to the showers. He hoped that he could release some stress, and perhaps not be so keyed up when his detention came.

* * *

Finally, the detention came. Snape assigned Harry to clean cauldrons with a minimum of words, and then left him to it. Harry, used to the dirty, mucky job of cleaning unrecognizable things from large basins, got to work without complaint, hoping that the rest of the detention would be as merciful to him.

Because of his familiarity with cleaning, he had the cauldrons finished after the first fifty minutes. He stood in the center of the room, after returning the cauldrons to their exact place, wondering what to do with himself. Detentions lasted for two hours, and here he was done within the first quarter. What was he to do? Surely Snape had other plans for him (he refused to let his hormone-driven mind make more of an idea of that than the statement allowed), so where the man?

Harry was studying the grotesque state of the desks when he decided to just continue cleaning. He rinsed the sponge and refilled the soapy water bucket, and then got to work cleaning the desks.

When he had finished the desks, he didn't want to be because slacking (for Snape still had not returned) so he continued his cleaning rampage against the potion-stained walls.

When Snape finally returned, he came upon quite a sight. His perceptive eyes darted to the cauldrons, which were cleaned a put away neatly. Then to the desks, which were almost beaming at him from under their highly polished state. Then the walls; they were no longer stained with various potions-gone-wrong and who knew what, but were now a clean, though dull, grey colour.

His eyes roamed until they found Harry, who was rummaging in his cupboard. He should have known. The little brat had used magic (Snape conveniently forgot that he had taken Harry's wand) to clean, and to clean extra, and then he had gone to raid his potions supplies, no doubt for highly-illegal potion-making.

He sneered and went to loom over the boy, but what he saw when he arrived behind the busy young man was quite a different sight than he expected. The shelves were organized, the labels new and gleaming, the various herbs and vials clean and proudly positioned in their proper place. Harry Potter finished the last shelf and turned, running straight into Snape with a small, surprised gasp.

His face instantly turned red, and he backed away as far as he could without ruining his hard work in the cabinet.

"P-professor," he managed to stutter, looking up at the man and gulping.

Now, Severus Snape was quite used to inspiring fear within the students, as well as hate and loathing. However, Potters reaction to him seemed a bit too extreme to his suspicious mind. Even the boy, Neville Longbottom, wouldn't be acting this peculiar.

He took a step back and turned, billowing to his desk and sitting behind it. Harry followed shakily, standing in front of the desk and fiddling nervously with his hands. After he had apparently calmed down, Snape spoke.

"So tell me Potter, how is it that I assign you to clean cauldrons, and yet you end up cleaning my entire classroom and reorganizing my potion supplies?"

"I-I'm sorry, sir. I thought…well, when I had finished the cauldrons, I wasn't sure what else you wanted me to do, so I just started working on whatever else needed doing. And…and that's what happened." Snape raised his eyebrows.

"Are you telling me that you managed to clean all 46 cauldrons in enough time to clean the rest of my classroom?"

"Well, yes, sir. I was finished after fifty minutes, so I just started working on the rest, since you weren't back yet." Snape's brows raised another notch.

"Fifty minutes, Potter? Are you aware that it usually takes the whole of two hours for most students to complete _only_ the cauldrons, in the mundane way?" Harry was still fiddling nervously.

"I—I didn't know that sir. I thought that maybe you forgot to tell me to do something, or that you had told me to do something and I forgot, or…or something." Harry finished weakly.

"Where did you learn to clean to efficiently, Potter? Even my six and seventh years, the few I have, are still less than efficient at the cleaning of cauldrons. Have you spent your life dreaming to be a housecleaner? A homemaker?" Harry winced at Snape's suggestion that he was too feminine to be normal. He didn't seem to be able to refuse Snape answers, and he was thankful that the man didn't ask the questions that he truly dreaded answering.

"I…it's my uncle, and my aunt, sir. They make…I mean, I'm in charge of all the cleaning and housework and gardening and cooking. And I had to learn to do it right unless I wanted to get…er…punished." Harry cursed himself for adding that last part, because Snape really hadn't asked, but at the same time, he felt that if he gave a less than sufficient answer, the man would ask specifically anyway.

"Punishment, Potter? What, did they beat you?" The mans voice was mocking and spiteful, and Harry winced. He despised his mouth and vocal cords for answering, hated himself for his inability to deny Snape what the man wanted.

"Well…yes, sir. But, it's not, I mean, it's normal. I mean, for someone like me, I deserve it, most times. And I can take it when I don't think I deserve it, cause I probably do, and they…uhm. Yeah…" Snape was glaring at him now.

"Someone like you, Potter?" his voice dripped venom, mocking and cold. Harry's eyes went somewhat blank as he repeated what he had been told, what he knew by heart, what be believed solely, above all else, about himself.

"A fag, a useless fuck, a disgusting little freak, a—" Snape rose his hand to cut him off.

"Lies, Mister Potter, are not something I am willing to tolerate." Harry stayed silent. If Snape didn't believe him, it made things easier, much easier.

Snape glowered.

"Detention, Mister Potter. If you can clean my classroom and organize my potion cabinet within two hours, I will make sure to utilize that talent. A lesson, Potter; never do more than you're told, or those who've commanded the orders will see your value and exploit it until your use has expended. Every night after supper, for two hours, you will labor down here under any task I set you. Is this clear?" Harry only nodded.

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Now get out of my sight." Harry left quickly, retreating from the room as though he heard the crackle of fire following him.

Severus Snape frowned and thought over the mostly one-sided conversation. Surely the great Harry Potter was not beaten within his own home. Albus had said he was quite happy there…but the last time Albus had checked in on him was when the boy had been very small. Perhaps things had changed. The boy had not declared himself to be truthful he had simply let it drop, as if he hadn't wanted to talk about it, or was grateful to allow him to believe whatever he wished. So then why had he even told the truth? Perhaps he was a terrible liar. If it was the truth, anyway.

He needed scotch. He was not going to mull over this anymore, he told himself. He would not allow Harry Potter to trouble him, son of James as he was.

Every night! Every night, at Snape's disposal for two hours!? How would he _ever_ pull through that? He had _barely_ managed not to pool into a puddle of useless hormones when the man had come up behind him unnoticed, and he couldn't imagine going through such nerves _every night_. And yet, he was sort of grateful for it. It allowed him to spend more time around Snape and, even though most of him loathed himself for it, he loved the time he could even he near the man.

It was time for his nightly shower, and, after that, he would not think of Snape until the next detention.

With that mulish thought, he took his towel and toiletries and made for the vacant bathroom.

* * *

So? what do you think?


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter Two: Detentions Detained_

Harry made his way down to the dungeons for his second Detention, nervously biting his lips as he walked. When at last he arrived, Snape was there to greet him, glowering.

"Mister Potter," Harry winced at the tone of voice. It didn't take much anymore to make him wince. Snape registered this, but ignored it, saving the thought it provoked for later analogy.

"Yes, sir?"

"You're five minutes late,"

"I'm sorry sir. I…ran in to a bit of trouble. It won't happen again." How very Slytherin of the boy, to not tell exactly what had caused him late. Had it been a true Gryffindor that had 'run into trouble', he would be hearing their whiny voice all night unless he told them to shut the goddamn hell up. Which he did quite a lot, actually.

Didn't Albus say that the boy had been meant for Slytherin, but had convinced the hat to place him in Gryffindor? Something like that.

"Well, get to work. The cauldrons are just as dirty as they were the day before, I expect. This time I will stay to watch you clean; to be sure there isn't a form of deception in your cleaning skills." Harry just nodded, and muttered a 'yes sir', in Snape's general direction before moving to the cauldrons.

Snape watched in skepticism, then, later, barely concealed astonishment as Harry methodically cleaned the cauldrons, leaving them as spotless and gleaming as pewter could get. When he had finished, Snape glanced at the clock. 45 minutes, apparently to compensate for the five that he had missed.

"Very well then, Potter. The tables, the walls, and then the floor. Do not go near my potions cabinet." Snape was not about to admit that Harry had arranged the ingredients exactly as he himself would have, and was not about to let him do it again, for fear of stolen supplies. Harry nodded and, without a word, cleaned the rest of the room with the same mechanical demeanor.

When he had finished, there was still thirty minutes remaining of his detention, and Snape had nothing more for him to do. As the man attempted to think up other jobs to have Harry do, the boy spoke up, rather quietly.

"What was that, Potter?" Harry's eyes darted to the newly cleaned floor in front of his feet, and spoke a tad bit louder than before.

"I was…I was wondering if you could teach me potions, sir. I've been reading ahead in the textbook, and though it's interesting, the hands-on experience is needed to fully understand it. And I was wondering if…if there's time after my detentions, if you would teach me, sir?"

"And what," Snape sneered, "Makes you think that your skills are acceptable enough to allow you to move ahead in your textbook?"

"Well sir, though I…though I don't get everything right, like Hermione does, I do try my hardest, and I do get acceptable grades. I learn from the mistakes I make, and never make the same ones twice."

"As true as that is, Potter, what makes you think that I don't have better things to do than to teach you advanced potions in my evenings?"

"Well, I don't think that sir. What I mean is that if there's extra time after my detention, would you teach me? Since you would have already set aside the designated two hours, then it wouldn't be too much trouble, would it?"

"Are you asking this of all your teachers, Potter?" Harry shook his head.

"No. with the others, I can read the books and practice the theory without them; because I don't need ingredients or someone to make sure I don't blow the place to smithereens. I've—I've already finished my textbooks for everything but potions, and my muggle books and wizards books alike aren't enough to keep me occupied anymore. I think that maybe I need something that requires more…more thought, more complexity, than the others. Something I won't just understand right off. A…excuse me for being presumptuous sir, but, I need a challenge."

While Snape had to agree that the first year curriculum for the other teachers was set to ridiculously low standards, he did not like to hear the cocky tone of voice that Harry's have undertaken. As though understanding Snape's thoughts, Harry spoke again.

"Sir, I did not mean to imply that I am not challenge enough, or that I am smarter or stronger than the other students; I just spend more time on school than anyone else. Its…it's somewhat soothing, I guess; studying is. I spend more time on it than even Hermione, and Ron is quite fed up with me. I don't thin we're friends anymore, actually. And even Hermione's getting annoyed. It's just…books and learning are…they're reprieves, sir, from things you'd rather not think about." How on earth did such a young boy draw conclusions so dangerously close to his own about such things?

"Then you will be promptly on time for your detention, Potter. And you will be given lessons before you clean, so that I am not left with the same mess we started with. However, when your two hours are up, they are up. And if you do not complete the cleaning within the time limit, then your lessons will cease. Understood?" Harry nearly almost smiled, and at that exact moment, Snape realized he had not seen the boy smile since the third day of school.

"Yes sir! Thank you sir!" and with that, Harry was gone, leaving Snape with a larger headache than that mornings hangover from the previous nights scotch.

* * *

The next few weeks passed almost uneventfully. Harry progressed steadily in his classes, easily matching Hermione as mist advanced student as the two grew closer over books. Ron soon fell first to the side, then out of the picture altogether, when Harry did not express any interest in the boy's suggestion that they not study as much. He was always promptly on time—and sometimes early—to his nightly advanced-potions lesson/detention, and he found himself relaxing more and more with the man, against his better judgment. He still loathed himself for his thoughts, but could find no way to deal with it, and thus attempted to ignore it whenever possible.

Snape, in spite of himself, was not quite as horrible during Harry's extra lessons as he was normally, though he kept the pace at which they progressed steady and challenging, he rarely ever made cruel comments just for the sake of cruel comments. Whenever Harry messed up, or was—occasionally—late, his insults would be as stinging as ever, but there was no unnecessary ego-depletion. During normal school hours, he was the same as he ever way, but the private classes were different, and Harry treasured that, even though he knew it meant nothing.

* * *

Life was no longer simple. This is the conclusion Snape had come up with, over the past few weeks, which was now almost a month. Potter was _not_ what he had anticipated, that was one thing. What he had expected was a stereotype of his father, a shadow of a past memory.

What the boy really was, however, was a whole other matter. He had decided to accept that the boy was abused by his so-called family, though he didn't think much about it, to be honest. It also seemed true that Harry thought very little of himself, which had first brought him immense satisfaction, then, later, pity. He still hated him, of course; how could he not? But he now held a grudging tolerance with him, against his better judgment.

* * *

Their last potions lesson before the break was drawing to a close, and Harry was well satisfied with his work. He smiled happily as he completed the potion, looking at Snape for the mans judgment on his work. The man nodded curtly, and Harry knew he had done well.

He bottled the potion and put it away in one of the potions cupboards, pleased that his potions were now acceptable enough to be added to the store of everyday potions that the man used on a semi-consistent basis. Snape had hinted that after the break they might begin some more dangerous potions, and even some forbidden ones, which Harry was quite looking forward to.

"Sir?" he asked hesitantly as he began to clean the classroom, as was his normal routine.

"Hm?" Snape had already started grading papers, and Harry could tell he was in a deep reprieve already.

"I was reading a book I had found in the, er, restricted section, and I was wondering if…well, I've been thinking."

"Such a dangerous endeavor for your mind, Potter. What did you find in the restricted section? You are quite fortunate that I will not waste my time in giving you a detention for your misconduct." Snape said wryly.

"Yes, sir. Thank you sir. I was…well the book wasn't really _about_ what caught my attention, but it was mentioned. I looked everywhere else that I thought I could find it, but I can't really find more than a vague definition, and it irritates me. I think that you would be quite good at it, and I suspect maybe you already practice it, so I was wondering if you could tell me more about it, and…perhaps, teach me it?"

"Out with it, Potter! Either tell me or stop wasting my time." Snape snapped.

"It's…Occlumency, sir." Snape was silent for a long while, and Harry worried that he was being overly presumptuous. At the moment the first year Harry potter was working at a fifth year rate in all of his subjects, as well as other classes that were not taught at his current year. He was either teaching himself, from books, or getting the occasional assistance from Snape, who made sure he pay the price in cleaning when he did occasionally provide help.

The one subject, besides the Dark Arts, of course, that he was having trouble finding knowledge on, was Occlumency. Occlumency, from the garbled bit of information he had managed to gather, was something he felt he desperately needed to learn. He forced himself not to fidget and to stand perfectly still and silent as Snape thought.

"Are you aware of how much time, energy, and concentration this task requires, Potter?"

"Well sir, I'm not even sure what it is exactly, but from what I do know, I think it would help me greatly because…Because I don't think that the Dark Lord will stay dead, sir. I have…I…" Harry tried to explain his feelings, to explain what had been happening recently. Snape had not twitched or winced, like others did, upon mention of Voldemort, though Harry had found early on that he would not tolerate the name itself, but only the honorific title.

"I think that my scar connects me to him, somehow, sir. I've felt this stirring recently, like you feel when you are just coming from a deep sleep, but aren't exactly awake yet. I feel sudden coursings through this fragile link, like…like roiling anger, or immense pleasure. It isn't too strong, not at all. It's faint, like it's coming from very far off, and sometimes my scar hurts. It hurts like my forehead will be torn in two. At first I thought it was…well, at first I thought it was your fault, sir, but I quickly realized that it was only around professor Quirrel that I felt it, and I think he's connected to V—The Dark Lord, somehow." Harry took a breath as Snape contemplated his somewhat confusing speech.

"What made you think I caused it, Mister Potter?" was all he asked.

"Because the first time it happened, I was looking at you. It was the first night, when I was sorted, and I was looking at the head table, looking at my new teachers, and when I looked at you, I felt sudden pain. It almost felt as though someone had struck me, and for a second, I thought it had been my uncle. This was, of course, ridiculous."

"I see. This connection you feel to The Dark Lord is disturbing potter, as well it should be. I assume, observant as you are, that I do not favour Quirrel too much, either."

Harry smiled slightly.

"Yes, sir. I was wandering and I saw you corner him, and threaten him. My scar hurt them, too."

"Troublesome as Quirrel's presence is, I see nothing you may do about it, at the moment. However, your desire to study Occlumency is validated by the disconcerting connection you feel with The Dark Lord, and I will assume to teach you, if you prove a good student in that effect. The task is _difficult_, and painful. It is not like other subjects you have studied, I assure you. If you are willing to do this, I will teach you. However, you must do something in return for me." Harry nodded, as though he had expected this, though his eyes betrayed confusion.

"I would happily return the favour, sir. But I don't know what more I could possibly do. I'm good at cleaning, and I have repaid you for the lessons in that manner, but I know nothing I could do for you beyond that."

"At the moment Potter, nor do I. Just know that in the future I will have my payment from you in some fashion. Do you accept the terms?" Harry nodded.

"Yes sir, thank you." He almost left—for he had finished his cleaning—but he turned back once more.

"And sir? About Quirrel? I believe he's after the Sorcerer's Stone, for some reason or another. And his connection to The Dark Lord, I do believe, is no coincidence. If The Dark Lord somehow got hold of the Sorcerer's Stone, I think it would be very bad."

"An understatement, Potter, but none the less accurate. Be assured, the stone is well protected. The Professors of this school have each guarded it with a talent of their own, and the Headmaster had placed perhaps a more genius spell upon it."

"I trust you know better than I, sir, and thank you. Out of curiosity, what was your contribution to the protection of the stone?" The man smirked, perhaps despite himself.

"A riddle of potions, Mister Potter." Harry nodded.

"Very appropriate," he asserted, smiling. His smile turned to a smirk, and his eyes seemed to loose sight of reality for a moment.

"Ron entertained the idea that _you_ were after it, sir. Earlier, before he showed that he was not a true friend. Hermione thought it fair ridiculous, because Hagrid said that you were one of the ones protecting the stone, but he wouldn't let it go. If that's all right with you, sir, I'd like to tell Hermione about its safety, and what you have told me in regards to it." Snape nodded slowly.

"I believe that will be acceptable. But tell no one of your Occlumency lessons, potter. Not even Miss Granger. Doubtless she would want the extra lesson as well." he frowned, and Harry laughed.

"She might, but I wouldn't tell her anyway. I wouldn't want to share." After a moment of silence, Harry continued, unsure again.

"Sir? I'm not—I mean, I don't wish to go home over the break, and Dumbledore said I could stay here over the holidays. If you agree, I'd like to continue my lessons over the break, and begin Occlumency as well."

"Have you told the Headmaster about your uncle's abusive tendencies, Mister Potter?" Harry looked down at his feet, then back up, to meet the man's eyes squarely.

"No, I have not. And I don't plan to. I ask you to please not tell him either. If he beats me, I deserve it, and that's the end right there. Will you teach me over the break sir? Or no?" Snape sighed.

"I suppose I could forego the endless amount of cheer and merriment I endure for the sake of your scholastic advancement," he conceded, and Harry grinned,

"Thank you sir!" and with that, he was gone. The breaks started tomorrow, so he was eager to be off and spend the rest of the evening with Hermione before she left. Besides; a whole holiday with more time with Snape than he usually got? He had to prepare!

* * *

So? review? 


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter Three: Will go unnamed for now_

Harry was unsure as to when they were to begin lessons, and this nervousness is what caused him to pace his empty dorm at high noon. Finally he decided that the serious lack of something to do would drive him insane; and that this was a plausible reason to risk immeasurably pain by Snape for interrupting or presumptuous. And thus he grabbed his cloak and headed off for the dungeons.

He knocked hesitantly on the classroom door, but got no answer. He decided that Snape probably would not spend his holiday in his classroom or office, so he made his way down to the man's quarters.

Here he knocked even more carefully on the door, as this was uncharted territory, and was rewarded by the scowling professor.

"I-I was wondering when we would begin classes." Harry managed. Snape looked _dark,_ and so _intimidating._ _Powerful_, Harry decided. And though he wasn't necessarily scared, he _was_ incredibly aware of the proximity of the man, and the way he seemed to loom over Harry sent chills racing up his spine, and heat down his neck and shoulders.

"I suppose now is as good a time as any, Potter. Lets make it noon to six, that way I can continue instructing you in potions and your other, extra, studies as well as Occlumency."

"Okay, that sounds good. Here or your classroom?" Snape glared heavily.

"Unfortunately, it would be all-too suspicious for me to suddenly take interest in my classroom over the holiday, so it will have to be here." Harry nodded, and Snape stepped back to allow him entrance into his quarters.

There was carpet; that was the first thing he noticed. Dark, brown carpet that gave way slightly beneath your feet. Brown and cool colours dominated the room, and two comfortable-looking couches faced each other in front of the fireplace, which was lit. On the mantle above the fireplace was a set of fine whiskey, scotch, and mulled cider, sitting in crystal glasses with decorative labels. To the side was a desk, and behind the desk were two bookcases. Harry suspected the man owned more books, and that the ones behind the desk were quick-reference only.

"Are you quite done, Potter?" Snape's voice entered his consciousness, and Harry realized that he had been staring.

"Yes, sir. Sorry, I was just looking." He said quickly, blushing.

"That was quite clear, Potter. Now, my lab is through that door, and my bedchamber and study, which you _are not to enter_, are through those two doors. We will be ordering our supper in, I suspect, so for that we will use the coffee table, because I will not be bothered with a dining room. We will begin with potions, followed with your other lessons, and later start Occlumency. You will be very worn out after your Occlumency lessons, and we cannot have you doing potions after that. Do you have any questions before we begin?" Harry thought, then shook his head.

"No sir, I don't."

'Good. Then you'll follow me," As he followed Snape to the lab, Harry tried desperately to push back the cheesy thought; _"I'd follow you anywhere"_, but didn't succeed.

Things fell into a pattern. Over the break, Harry spend afternoons and evenings with Snape, learning Occlumency, advanced potions, and other lessons that Snape felt fit to teach him.

Occlumency _was_ hard, as well as painful, but he found it slowly, satisfyingly, blocking the link between himself and Voldemort. He managed to keep all questionable thoughts about Snape out of his mind when Snape was there, and marveled that that feat alone probably made him a good occlumence. Or a very scared young man.

After the Christmas holiday ended, they had lessons from 8pm to 11pm, studying and working hard through the whole of the three hours.

It was inevitable that the two would learn about each other, with how much time they spent together, and Harry was very grateful for every moment he had.

Snape saw his memories of the Dursleys, but did not comment. Harry, accidentally, saw the memories of the man's own family, and did not remark. Certain things fell into the 'unspoken' category, and Harry was too afraid of losing the frail, established truce between the two of them to break it.

It was on the last day that all of Harry's defenses fell. He had put up certain walls in his mind—certain things that blocked his thoughts and feelings of Snape, and on the last day before summer holidays, this wall crumbled.

As Snape bombarded Harry's mind, yelling for him to push him away, to get him out, to block him out, and to force back, Harry's thoughts sprung, escaped, and lashed out. Something just clicked, and with the force of a tidal wave breaking loose of a dam, Harry's wall fell and his thoughts rushed forth.

Snape's first realization was that he was living the memory of that year's very first potions lesson from Harry's point of view. As the lesson progressed, he listened with wonder to the thoughts that had been going through Harry's head during that time.

After the lesson was the detention, and things progressed steadily forward from there, with all of Harry's very evident emotions and thoughts accompanying the memories. When at last Snape surfaced, Harry was standing five feet away, as he had when they had begun, breathing hard, face red from embarrassment and effort.

"How long have you kept this from me, Potter?"

"Since we begun," Harry said quietly. He was looking down now, his hair—which had grown to the base of his neck all around—fell over and covered his face, and his words were quiet.

"Walls do not work, Potter, as you have found. You must _bury_ things you want to keep hidden, not block them out with walls! Walls break. It takes a good digger—ligilimence—to find the farthest buried items. And even then, they have to know where to look." Harry looked up, glaring at him.

"Are you going to turn this into another lesson, sir?"

"Indeed, Mister Potter. What more could I do? I've naught to say." Harry's eyes were full of untold, unexplainable pain, and Snape had no idea what had caused it.

"I understand," Harry said, and he began to leave.

"Your lessons have not yet been completed, Potter. It may be the last day, but you are not granted early release." Harry slowly turned, closed the door, and walked to the couch, where he sat down.

"May I sit for a while?" He asked, and Snape could only nod. The man, uncomfortable with standing while Harry sat, moved to his desk, and began grading papers. It was after twenty minutes that he realized that Potter was talking, though not particularly _to_ him.

"—I mean it's not like its okay; it's not. I know it's wrong and all that, but I can't help wondering what you think, or how you feel about it. I know that's no excuse, and that I shouldn't even be wondering things like that, but I can't help it. And hey, if I'm so wrong and weird and abnormal, I might as well go all out, right? I mean, I'll get punished anyway, no matter what, so I don't really need to care about _why_, right? Because I know why, and even asking won't make me more odd or filthy than I already am, so it doesn't matter, right?"

"Potter, just _what_ are you talking about?" Snape's voice seemed to snap him out of his thoughts, and Harry jumped.

"Uh…I wanted to, you know, talk, about what you saw. I want to know what you are thinking." He answered dully, hitching a shoulder as if expecting to be hit.

"Then I suppose I should count myself lucky that your ligilimency skills are as insulting as your Occlumency, Potter." Snape replied archly.

"Yes, I suppose that's true sir. Perhaps you could…tell me?" Harry asked hesitantly.

"I've only one thing to say, Potter, so listen carefully, for you shall not hear it again." Harry nodded, dreading the inevitable insult, comment, or harsh word. Still, he watched as Snape stood and planted his hands on his desk, leaning forward a bit to make sure Harry was listening.

"Do not waste yourself on me, Potter."

When Harry's thoughts and mind were back in order, his eyes also refocused, and he found the sight before him a tad unnerving. Snape was there, sitting calmly at his desk and grading papers, as he had been before Harry had started talking, and Harry wondered if his mind had pasted a fantasy or fabrication over his memory of Snape's words.

They sat for an hour, Harry sleeping, Snape grading. Snape woke him when it was time to leave, and Harry said goodbye very quietly before unwillingly turning from the warm room into the dark hallway. Snape shut the door instantly on Harry's retreating back, and Harry winced as it slammed.

And now, he was back to the Dursleys.

* * *

x.x.x.x.x.x Fifth Year x.x.x.x.x.x.x

* * *

"Well Potter, here we are again. Do you remember anything I taught you from first year?" Harry nodded seriously.

"I practiced every night, sir. As well as other things you taught me. I kept up my studies." It was unnerving to hear real truth in the words, so Snape ignored them, and immediately began his fight into Harry's mind.

He got in, but there was nothing there. He rephrased that; there was nothing of importance there. His life as Harry Potter, the boy-who-lived, was picture-perfect and easy to see, memories swirled around him to show off the poster-Childs thoughts.

_Where is everything, Potter?_

_Buried. Like you told me, sir. My initial thought was to block him from my mind, but I soon decided that then he might think I've something big to hide, and perhaps even come after me for it. So I created…this. I buried everything of true importance, everything personal, and left all of the memories that one would expect to be in my head if they did not know me too well. Did I do this wrong? Is there some other thing or way I should have tried?_

_No, Potter. This is well done. There are even some bad memories to make it more believable._

Snape withdrew, pride suddenly swelling, then dissipating.

"Very good, Mister Potter. I assume your potions skills have not withered from neglect, then?" Harry shook his head yet again.

"No, sir. I kept up on that too."

"Very well. Let us go brew, then. I have certain potions that need to be finished by tonight, and perhaps with your help—if you don't fumble everything up—I might just make those deadlines. Come along." Harry followed wordlessly. Who would have thought that, after three years of complete isolation from Snape, they would be back to this? Dumbledore had requested that Snape teach Harry Occlumency, and here they were. So much had happened since then, so much had changed. Now the Dark Lord was back, and Snape was a Death Eater, a spy for the Order.

And he himself was…more useless than before. More used than ever. Completely and utterly worthless.

They brewed potions until the deadlines were met, and then Snape thanked him for his help—a rare occurrence. Then Harry mentioned the study of wandless magic, which he had begun third year, and the two were off, talking about theories and possibilities. Once Harry admitted that he was capable of a little wandless magic, Snape demanded he show the proof, and afterward began to test his skills. When he deemed that Harry was proficient to a degree, he offered to teach him, in exchange for a favour.

Harry was ever-cautious, and asked what the said favour would be.

Snape replied that the terms would be as they were for the first year Occlumency lessons, and Harry agreed.

Thus, when Dumbledore thought they were studying Occlumency, Harry was truly learning more advanced wandless magic.

* * *

Week moved, and Hermione and Harry ran through the same routine of school. Harry was a bit more withdrawn, a bit more quiet every year, and Hermione made it quite clear that she was there for him when he was ready to talk about it, but he never did seek her patient ears. Despite this, they still remained friends, and perhaps, somehow, because of this, they grew closer.

One night during their wandless magic lessons, Harry was reaching forward with his hand to call light, and his sleeve scrunched upwards and pushed until it was past his elbow, moved by an unseen force.

He looked up at Snape with fear as his scars were revealed and the man converged on them. Snape grabbed him by the wrists of both hands and stared his scars down. The oldest, faded silver, to the newest, red and angry, were all scrutinized with equal intensity as Snape's eyes darted between them. Finally when Snape had finished, he let go of Harry's arms, and Harry wrenched them from his grasp.

"Explain yourself, Potter," the man snapped, locking the only means of escape through recognizable wandless magic and sitting himself comfortably on the couch. Harry glared at him for ten long minutes before also sitting, placing himself opposite of Snape. When he finally spoke, his voice was void of emotion, and his eyes stared blankly at the fire.

"I'm sure you remember, from first year, my…unwillingness to believe myself valuable. I have always, and still do, hate myself, loath myself for what I am. What you do not know…there is so much. So many things…what you don't know, are my reasons. I hate myself because I am a worthless freak, a quick fuck. I am attracted to men, and loathe myself for being so abnormal. I am only good for shagging, and can't be used for much else, besides defeating Voldemort; I am only a disgusting freak.

My uncle and cousin have raped and beat me many times, since they found out I was gay, and they have tried to discourage me thus. To them, and to myself, all I am is a toy. To be played with, to be fucked. To Dumbledore, all I am is a toy, to be used, and expended. To the world I am nothing, to myself I am nothing.

And yet I have desires. I want, though it's not right. I yearn, though it's abnormal. And I _am, _though to inflict my presence upon the earth is a sin in itself. My cutting, my burning, are my own form of punishments to myself, in hopes that maybe I'll fix myself enough to be useful as more than I am now. Maybe enough to be wanted. To be…to be wanted by you."

Harry's eyes no longer were emotionless, but were filled with the pain that Snape had seen that day that his feelings for the man had been discovered. There was silence after this speech, and then there was movement.

Warm contact, soft kisses, and untold desire behind each touch, the room was cold and desolate, but nothing hindered the actions of the two occupants. And most likely, nothing could. Tenderness, a slow caress. Things progressed much as they usually do in these circumstances.

When Harry woke, Snape was above him, holding his clothes. The man was angry, furious.

"Get out," was all he said, and Harry quickly dressed and left without a word, resignation evident in his stance and movement.

He was gone.

The next few 'Occlumency' lessons, Harry did not show up. When at last he did arrive, Snape had him sit on the couch, and then sat himself opposite Harry, like before.

"I apologize for the other night, Mister Potter. It was a mistake on my behalf, and I take full responsibility for it." Harry nodded slowly.

"I knew you would say that. I'm…I'm always a mistake at everything, aren't I?" He smiled up at Snape, the smile an unnerving and resigned one, full of tears not wept.

"No, no. It was _my_ mistake, Harry. My mistake, in the fact that I exploited your feelings for me. It is perfectly okay to be gay, Harry, and your uncle and cousin should burn at a stake or something. You are worth more than them, and to those who do know you; you are worth more than so many others. When I say it was a mistake, I mean to say that I _used_ you, used your feelings for me, and I am apologizing for that."

"Used me..? But…I _wanted_ it, I did. So how could you have possibly used me? Even if you don't feel…feel as strongly for me as I do you, you didn't use me, because that's all I'm good for in the first place, see?" Harry explained his twisted logic to Snape, and the man grimaced.

"That is _not_ all you are good for, Harry. As for how much I care for you…well, I thought I made that painfully clear the other night." Harry smiled slightly in recollection.

"I _thought_ you had, but I wasn't sure…and after you threw me out, I was positive that you had only wanted sex." Harry shrugged.

"I see now that my actions the morning after were not well thought out, and I hope you'll forgive me for the pain it caused you. That was not my intention, or indication." He looked at the clock, and Harry's eyes followed the others trail.

"If you wish…you may stay here tonight." He said, voice guarded.

"I think will. Thank you."

They slept together, platonically, and they talked. They discussed everything, jumping from topic to topic until the topic was exhausted, and still they talked. In the morning, they ate breakfast at the coffee table, and Harry stumbled upon the thought that this was nice, even if it would not, could not, last.

* * *

A/N: Sorry angst-lovers, for that sappy, all-to-happy ending, but I'm really tired and I just had to finish it, already. Next up is the diary story. Then the pool table story, then the thnks fr th mmrs story, then the…looks at notebook…well, I wont list them all. There's a lot. Just know that I plan to post much more in the future.

Review, please?


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